Realm of Shadows Read online

Page 5

 

  Or perhaps she did.

  He watched the moon.

  Moments later, she came out to the dining room. “Steak and eggs, and a wonderful Burgundy to accompany the meal. ”

  “Burgundy—at this hour of the morning?” he inquired.

  “You bet,” she told him.

  They sat down to eat. She tried to be casual. She talked about Aidan’s smiles. The book she was reading. He responded with all the right words but he wasn’t really listening.

  The deep darkness of night began to lift.

  He stood, stretching. “Well, that was delicious. We should try to get a little sleep. ” Jade nodded. She started to pick up the dishes. He caught her arm, and his deep brown eyes touched hers.

  “We’ll get them later,” he said.

  She nodded, feeling a jump in her heart, in all her senses.

  Her husband was an expert lover.

  A vastly experienced one, but. . .

  He loved her, and she knew how deeply, and the past didn’t matter at all.

  She followed him up the stairs, her hand in his. And at the foot of the bed she shed the robe she had wrapped around herself. In seconds she felt his hands upon her bare flesh, and as always, it was as if she was set afire, as if she melted . . .

  As if nothing else mattered in the world at all. . .

  No matter the darkness, no matter the light, always, she felt his eyes, liquid fire, traveling over her, into her . . .

  And in the end, always, she would be amazed that she could still feel such passion, time after time, as if the world burst into gold, and sometimes, after the volatile climax seized, seared, and sated her, the brilliance would fade to black.

  Finally, exhausted, she slept in peace.

  He lay awake, and when he was sure she was completely into a world of dreams, he rose.

  He closed the curtains, and went down the stairs, then down again, into the basement.

  He kept a computer there. He started toward the desk, determined to send an e-mail.

  Then he decided against it. He found his place in the dark coolness of the lowest section of the house.

  There he closed his eyes.

  And receded into the depths of his mind.

  “Tara!”

  Jacques DeVant might be aging, and his health might not be the best, but he could still offer his granddaughter a bone-crunching hug. He didn’t go on and on welcoming her, he just said her name the way only he could say it, and hugged her. And she hugged him back.

  Then, of course, there were the inevitable kisses, one on each cheek, and he held her out at arm’s length, studying her.

  He was a handsome man, even at his age. He’d never lost his hair. It was thick and snow white glinting silver in the light His eyes were incredibly blue, and though his features were weathered and worn, there was a nobility in his facial structure that gave him a tremendous dignity and appeal.

  “Terrific hug,” she told him, ushering him back to his library chair. “And you look wonderful. But you have to be careful, you know. You have to rest. And not go about throwing away too much energy. ” He arched a furry white brow to her, looking at her skeptically. “I’m doing very well. And trust me, I’m extremely careful of my health. I intend to live until. . . well, you know, until I reach a ripe old age. A riper old age. ”

  He had been going to say something else, Tara thought. I intend to live until. . . it was as if he meant to say that he was going to live until he was done. Until some task was completed.

  “Honestly, you could be a young dude of only sixty,” she assured him.

  He shrugged and smiled, accepting the compliment. Tara perched on the edge of his library desk, looking at the old volume he had been reading.

  She decided to cut right to the chase. “What are you up to? Ann is upset because you want her to go down and find out what’s going on at a dig in the village. ” His smile faded just slightly, becoming rueful. “She thinks I am a demented old man. ”

  “No, she would never think that. But she is worried. ”

  “I have to know what is happening there, and Ann has resisted me, and . . . well, thank God you’re here!” He spoke the words so fervently that Tara immediately understood her cousin’s concern. “What is it about this dig?” she asked

  “I have to know what they’re after. And what they’ve found. ”

  “A bunch of old bones, I would imagine, if they’re digging up the crypt of a deconsecrated church. ”

  “I have to know exactly what they’re digging up. I need the plans to the crypt. I need to know if the professor has other scholars working on the project, who, just exactly who, is involved. I believe that the work must be stopped. And if I don’t have all the information, I won’t be able to do anything. Tara, you must go for me. You must be my eyes and ears. I have to be so careful, you see. My own grandchild thinks I am losing my mind. If I am not careful, others will see that I am locked away. That can’t happen. ”

  “Grandpapa, you are a scholar. A well-known author. ”

  “An author of fiction. Of far-fetched tales. ”

  “With tremendous messages,” she reminded him.

  That compliment only irritated him. “Fiction. They will think that all the fiction of my many years has slipped into my mind, and that I am crazy. Of all the times to be old and ill and weak!”

  “I don’t understand,” Tara said.

  He didn’t appear to hear her. He was staring into the old stone fireplace where logs burned and flames danced, rising in blue, orange, yellow, red, and soft gray plumes of smoke.

  “Grandpapa—”

  “I need you to go to the church,” he told her.

  “I’ll go tomorrow,” she said. “I promise—”

  “Tomorrow may be too late. Perhaps today is too late, and yet I haven’t heard of anything terrible happening. ”

  “What terrible thing can happen in an old church crypt?” Tara asked. “Are you afraid that there is something of immense value down there and someone may be after it? Are the men in charge of the dig in danger? Is there something that you really know?”

  He stared from the flames into her eyes. He shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand. But you must find out for me what is happening. ”

  “I told you that I would. But you know me, I can’t sleep on planes. I’m exhausted. I’ll go tomorrow. ”

  “Today. ” He looked her up and down. “Katia will get us some strong coffee. If you keep moving, you’ll be fine. It’s once you lie down and rest that jet lag gets to you. ”

  “You don’t understand. I’m wiped out. I had to turn in a project before I got on the plane. I haven’t had a lot of sleep in days. ”

  “Then one more day won’t matter. ”

  “Hey! You’re my grandparent, you’re supposed to be concerned about my health and welfare. ”

  “I’m extremely concerned. But you will go this afternoon and bring me back every possible piece of information they have on the dig. The name of everyone involved. You must somehow get in right where they are working. ”

  “They may not allow—”

  “Good heavens! Flirt your way in. ”

  “Sure you don’t want me to just sell my body on the street?” He let out a sound of impatience, giving her a stern frown. “This is not a matter for joking. ”

  “Jacques!” she said, using his first name, as she had always done when pretending to be among the literary community he had known so well in New York. “I don’t know what I’m doing. If I could understand, it would help. What exactly do you think is going on that you feel you must stop? Ann says you’ve spoken about something called the Alliance—”

  “Yes, the Alliance. I am one of the Alliance, and there are not many of us left, not many who have understood the calling. Surely, there are others. But perhaps they don’t know as yet. There are those I may be able to find . .
. but first! I must stop the dig. ”

  “Jacques, what is this Alliance? A group from the war? A group of writers?”

  “The Alliance . . . there isn’t time. Yes, perhaps you could say we’re a group from the war. Now please, we can talk for days on end. You must do this for me. If you do not, I will have to risk another bout of pneumonia or respiratory failure and go myself. If I’m right about what they may find . . . who they may find . . . you’ve got to get down there. ”

  “If you know something, you should call the police. ”

  “The police would not understand. They would have me locked up. Please, if you love me at all, Tara, you will help me now. I need you. ” There was a desperation in his tone that made her seriously wonder about his mental state.

  “The police cannot help,” he went on. “Not now. We are not in danger from any thief or ordinary murderer. ”

  “Grandpapa, what is the danger, then?”

  “Evil, pure evil. Tara, I’m begging you. You must do as I ask. ” She was startled by his words. She wanted to open her mouth, to protest the things that he was saying.

  Yet, she suddenly could not.

  A chill had settled over her. A chill that seemed to sweep straight through her, blood, flesh, and bones.

  “You will go?” he asked. “You will go for me. Today. Please?”

  “Of course I will go. ”

  CHAPTER 2

  The gloom in the crypt seemed overwhelming. Despite the many portable lamps hung around the vault deep in the earth, the corners were cast in shadow, deep and gloomy, shadows that moved in a macabre dance, making angels, saints, gargoyles, and grotesques come to life in an eerie profusion of darkness and light.

  “Dig carefully!” Professor Dubois admonished.

  Carefully! They could barely see.

  “Carefully, carefully!” Dubois repeated.

  The man was distraught. But then, to Jean-Luc, Dubois always appeared on the edge of a frenzy, as if his explorations in the crypt were world-shattering and his findings would change the shape of the globe.

  Down in the ground, in the area of deconsecrated ruins of the old St. Michel recently rediscovered foundations, the workmen were tired. Jean-Luc Beauvoir stared at the professor with his thick glasses and wild gray hair and bit his lip to keep silent He and the American, Brent Malone, had been working tirelessly for hours, slowly, slowly digging away the age-old rot around the coffins. Professor Dubois was expecting an incredible archaeological find. He was certain he was going to unearth not only the dead, but worldwide recognition, honors and awards, and naturally, the fortune to be made from the book he would write, and the lectures and speeches he would give. The professor gave little thought to the fact that most learned men thought he was a raving lunatic, or that he had bought his way into the excavation either by bribery or by making a large donation to the current St. Michel. Little money had been left to pay for the highly trained archaeological staff Dubois had wanted, and so the professor constantly shouted orders and ridicule at the two-man team of laborers he had managed to obtain, and forced them to keep working once the afternoon began to wane toward evening. The American seemed able to silence the professor with a single stare from his strange, gold-tinted hazel eyes, but the professor would merely start all over again.